I am a big fan and eager participant in the gift economy. A fringe benefit is that this is beyond the ability of capitalists to compute…
Amateur Our
Giving berth to anti-capitalists
There is know labor in me
Freely volunteering
I can
Bye
That pros and cons
Come together
Though ever more
As but infants
Soily themselves
A gift for awe
Into cautionary tails
Life finds a way — though often a long, longing way. May your life lead to more life…
Long After You Dead
Saving a life
Is as vein
As that life well
Spent
Wear day buy day
Most of what we due
In a madder of decades
Means
Less than
Shit
Fodder of awe
As life answers death
Casually spitting
An apple seed in a field
Life skipping
A long
Generations
After you dead
I interrogate the outside whirled a lot. Though sometimes the best question, the most fruitful question, is: “What is it about this situation that disturbs ME?” This helps me come to better terms a bout my own, inner peace, and inner turmoil…
Why’s Guise
I found myself playing
Catch-up
As I hid
Behind
My non-stop questioning
Parently as sum why’s guise
How hard it might
Be
Looking within
Without accepting
Caught up in the mirror reality
Soully pondering if
It looks like a duck
Walks like a duck
And quacks like a duck
Then it’s a duck
And sucking avoid
As eye decided
To look elsewhere
Then my self
I plodded a weigh
Too get out
Of dodge
By coming to
Where in the real fight is
Won self
Ethics is social in essence, that is, involving other people. Ethics is collectivist. Personal responsibility is social responsibility…
A We Problem
Eye had a problem
Sew it seamed
Mine and mine
A loan
Untill that is
An other showed up
Assembling what was now
A we problem
Into what was better yet
A wee problem
Here is a poem about generational wealth in our capitalist society, being tied, to extractive industries and the financialization of everything, and still missing the real wealth in life…
Generational Wealth
They extracted
As much
As they could
From life
Getting
Soully what they got
As a ward their rare earth mettle
Nows eternally souled
As traders of currency
More, then they could ever need
As much
Goaled
Passable
From grave to grave
I am not a fan of “spokespersons,” particularly those shilling for corporate “persons” or partisans in the government. This poem was specifically inspired by department of war shills…
Mouth Peace
I need a job
Sow I don’t speak for myself
I represent my boss, a corporate person
Sow I don’t speak for others
I am won for doublespeak
Speaking up is speaking down
Affront of others
The human race getting second place to AI should not be an option…
Keeping Pays with AI
We are faster, then ever be for
We are only one step behind
In the raze
Fore humanity
It
Soully seems bad
When you get too
The finish lyin’
In the bag
Awe the silver mettle
A small prize to pay
For pooh pooing number two
And those who can’t even go there
The way we relate to money tells a lot about us…
Allot of Money
Sum people
Look at allot of money
And think profit
Some people
Look at allot of money
And think prophet
Behold
Where you set your I’s
Sow does your heart lie
“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.”
― Dorothy Parker
At some point, every ideology wrests on assumptions, that soul stuff that we “choose” to believe. I try to center my life around the conviction that humanity is one, that we are all siblings, in my view God’s children. Form me, what follows is a radical equality and a path of nonviolence, compassion for all, including my enemies. What assumptions do you follow? . . .
A Posed
Are you a posed
To still
Believing
In loo of evidence
Not sow much
It’s what is called
ID-ology
The root of won’s belief
The ground of one’s soul
Beyond belief
The premises on which we live
And die
And what might
That be
A good
Start
A tending us
Where ever we go
Till we end up
God knows wear
As in the mean time
The wrest is up
To me
Hope may not be a strategy, but without hope strategy is hopeless…
Hope Less Strategy
You may have herd
That hope might
Knot be a strategy
Won of those pills
Too big
To swallow hole
Off course, you may want to
Chew over
Sum rout
To void despair
And cultivate hope
Now
That’s a plan
Yet another poetic takedown of AI on all affronts…
Bigger is Bettor – Owed to the Equation of AI Slop Times Everything Ails
“Every won poops, accept AI.”
It turned out
That they whir
Be dazzled
Buy bigger is bettor
The human raze
Is awe in
Wading for salvation
From the con fines
Of the human mine
Mine, mine!
Race, race, race!
Sects, sects, sects!
And madders of the human heart
Holed in the mettle of data centers
Drowning in the soul solution
Too ill defined
Plights of fancy
The bind leading the bind
As if know a
Weigh given to save the whirled
Too buy too
On an existential arc
Soully to find ourselves
Stuck on a bout
Unable to get off
Firmly helled by won stale mate
After another
Ass the future
Is behind us
And unlike AI
Everyone oops
In culpable to clean up
That witch is overdo
For ever more
De-ported
In habiting the back wards
Err it is
Too late
Living without heir
We won’t be
Food agin
Abut too know a veil
Halving apprehended
Hour lessen
Soully left
Too ponder us
Weather fucked
As unfucking believable
A Taoist riff on a John F. Kennedy quote…
Holed for Life
“Clay is shaped into a vessel; it is the hollow within that makes the vessel useful…So what is there gives advantage, but what is not there gives use.” –Tao, Chapter 11
Ax not
What life holds
Fore you
What rather due
You hold for life
Dividing the world into beautiful and ugly can be misleading for our soul. How might we overlook the hole of beauty?
Dis Ability
He could not tell
The deference
Between ugly and beautiful
The most beautiful disability
One could ever have
Today, like all days, we are healed by taking care of one another, enacting a body politic of vulnerable first…
Politics at a Stand Still – Owed to Mutual Aid
“Cowardice asks the question, is it safe? Expediency asks the question, is it politic? Vanity asks the question, is it popular? But conscience asks the question, is it right? And there comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but one must take it because it is right.” –Martin Luther King, Jr.
“The Good Samaritan has the patients to heal the body politic, that is neighbors love.”
They whir
At the coroner
Of fear and distraction
In looking untoward the street
Preacher lifting up patients
Without
Passers buy
As aheads down
In a whirled of preyers
As full
Filled
With desperation
Only won thing in common
A greed
Chasing a body politic grand
Stand
Still
Just
Out of
Reach
No’ing awe to well
Living in timeless times
The uncounted
Cross
Roads
The prophet taking at hand
Out of their mine
As razing questions of neighbors
Showing up
With mercy full
Of time and money
Patients
Hear
Now
Here we go again…
Down
He was bonkers to get
Down
Double down
Down
Down
Triple down
Down
Down
Down
In compassing
All that you need
To no
Here is a poem for those who have ever had a bad love, a fare, with capitalism…
Moneymaker Shaked
Get
Down
And snuggle up
Too that
Moneymaker
A tract like a magnate
And if you feel
Sum what
Estrange
You have been
Silver spooned
Shaked down
Bye that moneymaker
In the end
As abut
Amor then a patsy
On the capital list
Down right cheeky
The poor left behind
I see privilege is a rich soil for sins of omission — that is, where privilege means the ability to see a problem as not one’s own problem. I see compassion as the eye-opening, heart-opening, arms-opening force that sees a problem as a “we” problem. This makes me kind, of a socialist. This awe sow makes me kind, of a mystic. As a mystic I don’t really believe in individual ownership, but rather stewardship. As one “owns everything,” compassion is simply a deeply patient harmony knitting everything to gather…
O Mission – Owed to What Might Be
O mission of my heart
What had eye
Left undone
Right unseen
A wealth of things
As poor out
Untolled openings
A mist chants
Of being
The deference between
Prayer and preyer
That see of opportunities
Taken
Buy the practices of love
Allot amor
Then what might be
Even contemplated
Whoa is me
If there is a sin
Hitten from me
What might
I want to no
That sad state of fares
Pain by the person before me
Or behind me
Or next me
How afar aweigh
Outstretched alms
And soully just us
Abiding in the margins of history…
This Doodle Abide
I am content
To live in the margins
Of ridden history
Amor as a doodle
Of what might be
Noose to some
The paper cutting edge
Sow bother sum
To those gripping power
In the buy and buy
Awe they need to no
This dude’ll abide
This poem is an ode to the passionless and visionless centrists killing the Democratic party. Oh, how I yearn for unbought and unbossed political leaders…
Open Mined
“Centrism is not pragmatic in a broken system”
They tired to keep
Their open mined
They were centrists
Without a mettle
Sow trying to be hip
As big D and little d
Level
Aheaded
Down
The sociopath
Wile fumbling fighters
A real reach
Their bottom
Lyin’
A genocide
Of vote, err, sentiment
As strip mind
Of scruples
Win ore ails
Soully a madder of taste
In de∙electability
Having made their corporate pax
Though oligarchic corporate rule is having its day, expect glorious humanity to rise up in efface of such a wasteland…
When She Peers
It finally seamed
A soul corporation
Owned every thing
Parently that is
Abut won blooming soul
In carnation
A glorious remained her
Is mothered in the recesses
Beyond
Any cruel calculus
Up rising
Soully bowing to the unbowed
Flower power
Best buds
With awe that there is
